daughter to the great _Beralti_, and sister to _Myrtilla_, a yet
unspotted maid, fit to produce a race of glorious heroes! And can
_Philander_'s love set no higher value on me than base poor
prostitution? Is that the price of his heart?--Oh how I hate thee now!
or would to heaven I could.--Tell me not, thou charming beguiler, that
_Myrtilla_ was to blame; was it a fault in her, and will it be virtue
in me? And can I believe the crime that made her lose your heart, will
make me mistress of it? No, if by any action of hers the noble house
of the _Beralti_ be dishonour'd, by all the actions of my life it
shall receive additions and lustre and glory! Nor will I think
_Myrtilla_'s virtue lessen'd for your mistaken opinion of it, and she
may be as much in vain pursu'd, perhaps, by the Prince _Cesario_, as
_Sylvia_ shall be by the young _Philander_: the envying world talks
loud, 'tis true; but oh, if all were true that busy babbler says, what
lady has her fame? What husband is not a cuckold? Nay, and a friend to
him that made him so? And it is in vain, my too subtle brother, you
think to build the trophies of your conquests on the ruin of both
_Myrtilla_'s fame and mine: oh how dear would your inglorious passion
cost the great unfortunate house of the _Beralti_, while you poorly
ruin the fame of _Myrtilla_, to make way to the heart of _Sylvia_!
Remember, oh remember once your passion was as violent for _Myrtilla_,
and all the vows, oaths, protestations, tears and prayers you make and
pay at my feet, are but the faint repetitions, the feeble echoes of
what you sigh'd out at hers. Nay, like young _Paris_ fled with the
fair prize, your fond, your eager passion made it a rape. Oh
perfidious!--Let me not call it back to my remembrance.--Oh let me
die, rather than call to mind a time so fatal; when the lovely false
_Philander_ vow'd his heart, his faithless heart away to any maid but
_Sylvia_:--oh let it not be possible for me to imagine his dear arms
ever grasping any body with joy but _Sylvia_! And yet they did, with